Don Diaz de Losa's apartments were crowded when Beauvallet arrived that evening. There was dicing going forward in one room, where a great many young caballeros were gathered, but the function seemed to have more the nature of a cold reception. Magnificent gentlemen strolled from group to group; there were ladies amongst them, not so discreet as had been the ladies of Spain in a bygone age. Serving men in the de Losa livery, each one bearing his master's cognizance offered refreshments on heavy silver trays to the guests. There was wine in glasses of Venetian ware: Valdepeñas from Morena, red wine of Vinaroz and Benicarlo; Manzanilla, lightest of sherris-wines from San Lucar. With these went sweetmeats and fruit: Asturian pomegranates and grapes from Malaga, but other refreshment there was none. To an English taste this might seem meagre, to be sure, in the face of so much ostentatious display. Don Diaz's house had carpets to tread upon, chairs lined with cut velvet, candelabras of wrought silver, a Toledo clock of rare design, hangings of silk and tapestry, but it did not seem to be the Spanish custom to entertain guests with banquets, as would have been done in kindlier England. There was an oppressive grandeur over all, as though each man, were mindful of his high degree, and the canons of polite behaviour. No voice was raised light-heartedly; all talk was measured and punctilious, so that Beauvallet's laugh sounded strangely in this sedate gathering, and men turned their heads to see whence came the care-free sound. It had been provoked by a gentleman from Andalusia, to whom Don Diaz had made the Chevalier known. This Southerner had a gaiety lacking in the grave Castilians, or the proud Aragonese, and had cracked some joke for the Chevalier's delectation. They stood chatting easily enough, so easily that Don Juan was moved to congratulate the Chevalier on the excellence of his Spanish. No doubt the señor had been in Spain before, or had at least Spanish friends? Beauvallet owned to a Spanish friend, and said that this one had enjoyed the acquaintance of Don Manuel de Rada y Sylva. Had he the name aright? "Ah, the late Governor of Santiago!" Don Juan said, and shook his head. The golden pomander was held to the Chevalier's nose. Over it his eyes were watchful. "I had thought to present myself to him," Beauvallet said. "You have not heard, señor: Don Manuel is dead these three months. A strange tale!" "Dead!" Beauvallet said. "How is that?" "The West Indian climate, señor. Treacherous! ah, but treacherous! But there was more to it: a tale to take one's breath away!" "But let me hear it, señor, of your kindness!" The Southerner spread out his hands. "Have you in France heard of a certain English pirate? One named El Beauvallet?" "Assuredly!" Sir Nicholas' eyes danced. "Who has not heard of him? The Scourge of Spain I have heard him called. Am I right?"